


Measure My Bones

by Kirsten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-28
Updated: 2007-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirsten/pseuds/Kirsten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're driving through the desert and the Impala kicks up dust as she goes. You see blue sky and dirt when you look in the rearview, and the road and the tire tracks stretching back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measure My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to rivers_bend and oxoniensis for the betas.

You're driving through the desert and the Impala kicks up dust as she goes. You see blue sky and dirt when you look in the rearview, and the road and the tire tracks stretching back.

Sam smacks your shoulder. "You're not even listening to me."

You shrug and reach forward, turn up the music, Black Sabbath your way through a bag of M&Ms. You bare chocolate teeth in Sam's direction; he rolls his eyes, and you smile and look away.

You remember being stuck in some crummy apartment in Colorado. You can't remember where exactly it was. Your dad was out hunting, he'd been gone for days, and you were taking care of Sam. Sam wouldn't eat his mac and cheese, and you had nothing else to give him except a couple beetles from the hole in the kitchen floor.

"You wouldn't," Sam said, all wide-eyed horror and little boy shock.

"Sure would," you said, and you scarfed those beetles down like they were popcorn. They wriggled 'til their bones went crunch in your teeth, and you swallowed and smacked your lips. "Mmm," you said to Sam. "Way better than mac and cheese. There's a whole nest of 'em down there, too."

Your nine-year-old self had no limits. But you both fell asleep with full bellies that night, even if Sam did only eat the mac and cheese so you wouldn't make him eat beetles.

-

You hit old Victory just as the daylight dips low. There's nobody around in this gold rush ghost town. You cruise through the ruins and pull up by the wreck of a saloon. It's like a movie set, three walls and empty space to the west, and the setting sun turns the old sandstone red.

You get out of the car and catch your breath, stretch out the aches and the pains. Sam does the same, but you're working a case, and you keep your eyes turned away.

"You sure this is the place?"

"Yup." You open the trunk and pull out a shotgun and enough rock salt rounds to see you through. You give Sam a shovel. "It's your turn."

Sam makes his pissy face, the one that always has you laughing on the inside. "You know we have two of these."

"But I'm older."

"I hate you," Sam says, and he grabs the second shovel, too.

The air is sharp now that the sun has fallen. The moon is full, and you almost don't need the flashlight. Sam's footsteps are steady behind you. You make like the Impala and leave tracks at the side of the road.

You find the old church at the south end of town. There isn't much of it left, just a cross and some gravestones, the names and dates faded and worn. Fortunately you're expert at this, the interpretation of old scratches on stone, and Sam is better. Together you find her, Gwen Kennedy, just another churned up woman in white.

You touch a hand to her headstone. "Twenty-five guys on that stretch. You're going down."

You dig while Sam keeps watch. You lose yourself in the rhythm of it. Digging's heavy work, but it's okay when you stop thinking and just do. You cast off your shirt and work in your Motorhead tee. It's not too long before sweat makes it stick to your body.

Digging was the first thing your dad ever let you do on a hunt. You were eight years old. It was the summer, that long hot summer up in Montana. You helped your dad dig while little Sammy played in the dirt you kicked up. That was the night your dad taught you how to salt and burn.

You drive your shovel into the dry earth. You say, "Remember the first time we did this?"

Sam's looking out over the gravestones. "Oklahoma?"

"Montana," you tell him. "I was eight. You were such a tiny wee dirt rat."

"I was four."

Sam's annoyance has you laughing on the outside.

Halfway down, you stop, climb out, let Sam take the coffin depths. You crouch at the edge and cradle your shotgun, but it's quiet. You think, maybe Gwen is ready to rest. You see impossibilities every damned day, so you don't know. Maybe sometimes it happens this way.

When Sam hits hollow you jump in to help prise it open. You see bones, old bones, dusty like the road and dead like old Victory, a skeleton of memory. The grave is a scar on the earth, or an open wound. It's easy to burn her; you know it helps.

Times like this make you think of Montana, the way Sam was just a kid and your dad was just your dad, and the way prairie grass made the bone smoke smell a little sweeter.

You wait until the flames die, and then you backfill the grave. You would leave it alone, let it heal over in the open air, but Sam likes a job done and done well. It's not a task that falls to you often. It's the living build monuments to the dead; usually you burn in urban landscapes, and you're almost always running.

-

Whoever dug those graves put 'em down deep. You say, "I'd like to dig that sucker up, maybe resurrect him so I can punch him in the face."

Sam's taking a break. He's lying on his back, looking up at the stars. Your frustration makes him laugh, but it doesn't make him help. You wonder if he's praying.

The sky's looking lighter in the east by the time you finish up. You stamp down the earth, smooth over some dust. You stand back and take a look.

It's like nothing ever happened. She was always just at rest.

Sam leads the way back to the Impala. She's dusty, but tomorrow you're heading north. You think maybe there'll be rain along the way. You like that she looks the way you feel, kind of beat up, and sort of worn.

You unload the shotguns and put them back in the trunk, and Sam dumps the shovels in the backseat, pulls out a bottle of water. He drinks long and deep, stretches, and then he reaches out for you, just grabs your wrist and pulls you close.

He presses you against the driver's door. She's cold at your back and Sam's hot at your front, and you're shivering. He smells like salt and like bones, and his lips are pink and wet.

You can't stop staring.

He asks, "You want some water?"

"Yeah." Your voice is hoarse. There's dust in your throat.

Sam smiles and takes another drink and you think now, now is when you'll kiss.

You don't. He puts a hand all over your cheek, tilts back your head, holds the bottle to your lips and lets the water trickle. His eyes are dark. You drink until he takes it away, and then you wrap your hand around his neck and hold him still and you stretch up and you kiss him, and it's all open mouths and tongues, it's wet and it's hot, and you think, yes, yes.

You could die happy in a kiss like this.

-

You lose track of time, standing there in the desert making out with your brother. You stop when you notice the sun's come up.

Every time you kiss him, you'll think of the desert and bones.


End file.
